


Vent Story Collection

by FrogSpawn



Series: Septiplier/Danti One-Shots [9]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abstract, Ambiguity, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Artsy Bullshit, Burning alive, Character Death, Crying, Death, Drowning, Edge of Sleep, Hallucinations, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insanity, Instabilty, M/M, Nonconseual surgery, One Shot Collection, Other, Poetry, Psychological Torture, Psychology, Screaming, Septiplier - Freeform, Shipwreck, Short One Shot, Silence, Smut, Surgery, Torture, Weirdness, hahahaha, laughing, what even is this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2020-10-26 20:57:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrogSpawn/pseuds/FrogSpawn
Summary: A bunch of weird and nonsensical dark stories I wrote to vent out whatever beast was in me that day. They're odd, ambiguous and not happy. Including references and description of sex, self-harm, depression, drug abuse and addiction, drug use, eating disorders, unstable people, dubious mental health, dubious consent, death, graphic torture, all that good stuff. They're all very short and don't always make sense.





	1. Screams

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one a while ago and only now decided to post it. The only reason is because I have a load of these filed away on my PC somewhere so if people want to read it then please comment below and I'll add them to this work.  
Thanks for reading, enjoy

When you sit down and think about it, screams truly are a remarkable thing. They portray your current situation, emotional state, past experiences and thoughts. In only a single, shrill shriek.

Sometimes it wavers from the intensity of overwhelming emotion. And yet each one made their own unique sound with distinct undertones that reacted to the human body in a way no other scream would: joy, anger, sorrow. Sometimes it remains one pitch for enough time to nearly deafen nearby patrons. It could also be so quiet only you hear it.

Jack's screams were no different. Expressive, high pitched and telling. Bespoke to any situation, custom made by their bodies on the fly as different variables and outcomes smacked them in the face.

Screams of rage and frustration as a block of red pixels fell into a pit of 8 bit lava and a merry theme played from the speakers to signify death. Accompanied by the thud of a controller being savagely dropped to the ground below, they were low pitched and violent, possessing a certain animosity to them that never failed to riled his husband up. The same scream, but without the uncontrolled fury residing within, as when said husband was pinned against the nearest wall or bent over the table as Jack penetrated him with tongue, fingers, dick or one of their many sex toys. Growling and snarling his name over and over and over until the surface was painted white and Mark was panting, lying sore and boneless in Jack's capable hold.

Screams and squeals of fear as he peeked out from behind a blanket at the horrifying scene playing on the television. It wasn't actually scared, the warm, muscled arms wrapped securely around his shivering figure enough to keep him entirely grounded. Half hearted and short, steep rises without a fall. Coming in a higher frequency then they should have, but forcing them out anyway just because each time they left his throat, soft and pillowly lips would pepper his neck and muttered comforts were caress his ears, and Even how the arms tended and tightened around him to pull him further into the furnace of the other.

Screams that escaped his lips in a euphoria fuelled haze, deep and hoarse from how wrecked his voice was that it physically hurt to produce; but the way that Mark entered his and stroked him and kissed his pale skin was enough to wrench those drunken wails and screeches as he thrashed on the crumpled sheets. They would waver with the rhythm and grow and swell in volume as Jack lost himself in his other half. The sweet, gentle love making forcing him to cry out to the heavens for this to never end.

Screams and howls of laughter as he pinned to the floor by powerful hands. Fingertips bypassing clothes to stimulate the delicate skin underneath in the most torturous way possible. Hysterical pleas for mercy, broken apart by regular crackles and outbreaks of irrepisble glee. Joined by the reading tone of the man hovering above him made those cries warm and fuzzy, making their heart grow and beat faster until they were convinced they were going to tear out of their chests just to be closer together.

Screams of internalized serenity as they lay on the sofa , Jack inbetween Mark's legs with his arms looped around his waist. The air still and silent save for their quiet, heartfelt murmurings in the others' ear and the soft crackle and pop of the fire that glowed lazily in the heath. Their silver rings would sparkle in the hazy light that bathed the room. Liquid would collide with the windows, creating a rhythmic thrumming that echoed through the modest cottage, dripping down before splattering on the flagstones beneath the sill. Even when Chica would want and paw at the sliding glass back door, they would remain in the other's arms, content and half asleep as they internalized their loving screams in place for gentle whispers of love that they shared like some sort of deep secret.

Screams of brokenness and emptiness as he lay sobbing and cursing everything in existence, cradling his husband's limp and broken body, holding him above the surface of the road. Sodden tarmac stained with sickening streams of scarlet that slowly trickled from the corpse, running off of the tattered clothing in rivlets of evidence that this man was once alive. The pungent odour of whiskey as the man driving the car that was haphazardly parked metres before the couple finally excited the vechile and made their way over.

While screams could tell us a lot about a situation, silence was just as informative.

Silence, fragile and pure, as the closed casket was lowered slowly into the ground. The wind swayed the leaves but even they were not make a peep as the small crowd of onlookers silently wept for their lost one. Tears drizzling down to water the hard earth.

Silence as Jack read Mark's last will and testiement, the paper still and motionless within his hands. The words neatly scrawled on the page still unread, as if when he began to read it would cement the fact that the man whose eyes had shone so bright had been ruthlessly ripped from the world without a warning. As if it wasn't true until the paper had been processed.

Silence as Jack stared at the screen of his phone. The digits of the ridiocusly early morning appearing on the glaring screen, yet he was focused on the last text in the row. A short, sweet 'I love you too doofus, now get that sweet Irish ass into bed <3'. He was silent as he recalled that - Their last night together. They didn't do anything sexual, just lay there, basking in the other's presence before turning the light off and sleeping soundlesly beside the other.

Nothing but the lack of sound comfort Jack as he wept and sobbed and called for Mark to come back as the same scarlet that stained the road dripped from his wrists and thighs. His fingers trembled as they tried to keep hold of the slippery metal between them but failing as it collided with the riled floor with a clang.

When Mark was there it was screams. But they have now been silenced.


	2. The Whale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to 'The Edge of Sleep' when I started to feel hazy and depressed and a bit nothing, so I wrote this to channel that and try and keep my head above the water. It isn't proof read since I haven't really cleared the other side yet, but I might come back later and do that if I can bear to look at it. If you haven't listened to the podcast yet then do, there are spoilers in this.  
It's based on Dave, the character that Mark voice acts for.
> 
> Enjoy, I guess. Idk.

Each of her footsteps went off like a gunshot, sudden and deafening, crashing against walls to roar throughout the derelict street. Street lamps flickered against the storefront of closed shops, light streaming through clouded glass to illuminate desolate interiors. No cars teetered down the street, nobody crowding out of nightclubs, their neon signs dark above the heads of drunken masses. It was silent. And still. So unbelievably still.

The moon shone weakly down upon the sodden tarmac of the road – it had stopped raining a while ago, it should have dried. Yet it still squelched and oozed underneath her boots, only to remain a thin layer of moisture on the surface. No owls hooted or crickets chirped. No faint whisper of the wind as it slithered through the still leaves. Not even the stars twinkled tonight.

It was as if the world had been frozen in time.

She stopped in the centre of the road, eyes staring dead ahead, straining to see some, any movement enveloped in the dark abyss of the night. Her head ached, pounded, her lungs burning with the need, with a desperate, charred desire for something, a sound or a sight or a smell. Instead only that fucking silence, that soundlessness that seemed to suck her in. Screams were stuck in her throat, as if trapped, unable to push past the barrier that the silence created. She scanned the store fronts once more, lingering on a few apartment doors.

Each step was so exhausting, as if she was wading through mud or quick sand, and with each step she was sinking, slowly, slowly, slowly. Her eyelids were so heavy, each second that she had them shut, each time she blinked, it was as if her brain was pulled in unconsciousness. As if another layer of darkness veiled her vision.

Raising a trembling hand to a door, she tried to knock, but her fist fell against the wood, useless. It barely even made a sound. It was too heavy. Everything was so foggy, the air thick and impenetrable. But if nothing happened then she would go insane. She would slide down the wall, curl up, and freeze.

So she knocked weakly. When silence answered her feeble attempts at sanity, she knocked again. She shuffled to the next house, knocking again.

It only took three doors to find one open. She stepped inside, body not even registering the change in temperature; it was still stuck in that overheated atmosphere of that party, sweat stuck to her back as a ghost pinned her to a wall. She looked around, the air misty and clear, thick and gluggy as it swirled like water around the spots she was previously occupying, never filling them up. As if they were still full.

It only took her eyes a few seconds to locate the body on the sofa, a few minutes to finally swivel far enough to actually see them.

They were pale, eyes closed. Legs were bare, covered in sparse coatings of dark hair, nearly hidden by the baggy hoodie was adorned the object. That’s all it was. They had been reduced to a thing. And with how its lips were chapped, it hadn’t been a thing for long. Or maybe it had. When times stops, it’s hard to keep track of things.

She looked at it, up and down, caressing each curve and dip in their body with a look, but she never saw it. So she stood there looking at this thing until nothing fucking changed. Because why would it.

It was unnatural. That this thing would never rot, or decompose, or burn until it was nothing but ash. Like the rubble of an abandoned building being torn. It would just sit here, pristine and still and nothing, until... nothing. Until nothing.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. But she couldn’t. Every emotion was present, rising and powerful and... nothing. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t even fear, or exhaustion, or confusion. It was just nothing. It was what she felt as she was crowded against the wall and whispered to. Before everyone went to sleep, and time stopped ticking.  
There was a clock on the mantel piece, above the cold grate of the fireplace. It was dead, a black screen gazing at her with darkness for eyes instead of the neon digits of life. No, it was nothing too.

She felt her knees buckle. She felt sweat prickling at her neck and arms and back. She felt herself fall to the floor. But of course that didn’t happen, not actually. Because when the world freezes, nothing happens. You don’t get panicked or sad or angry or scared. You become still, nothing.

Exhaustion tugged at her brain as she rose, eyes becoming misty as most things dissolved to a hazy outline in a field of smoke and darkness. Even as she grew too weary to fight, too weary to feel, too weary to be, she found herself in the street again. The leaves didn’t blow, the wind was still dormant.

She saw a gun on the ground. It wasn’t on the ground, it was in her hand. It felt light, like a feather. Her eyelids were heavy as she raised it to the purple sky, where the lightless stars stared down at her with unblinking black eyes. Darkness converged, rising and falling slowly, as if it was a living organism, breathing in tune with a piece of paper. It swelled and then receded as she pulled off of the safety and fired it.

There was a bang. It was nothing. It wasn’t even a sound anymore. It wasn’t loud, yet it deafened her. Like she was deaf and then everything came at once and then it wasn’t loud anymore, everything was quiet, so muffled, so fucking silent. There was a bullet casing, disfigured and morphed, lying beside her, except it wasn’t there, because the gun never fired. Nothing was shot. There wasn’t even a gun. The never was a gun, nor bullets, nor casing, except the air where the casing lay seemed to pushed into the gap that the gun had resided within, sending a small amount of air to fill up the lower half, sloshing like water, ripples forming and then freezing and dissolving, because it couldn’t ripple.

She looked up, and spied a sign. It was for a pub, and the logo was a whale. The sign didn’t drift or sway with the wind, since there was no wind, and everything was still and motionless and silent. Except the sign. No, not the sign; something on the sign. Something wasn’t still.  
The whale.

Its tail flicked back and forth as it stared at her, gaze fixated, blinking every so often, opening and closing its mouth as it whispered. Cartoon water splashed over its sides as its blowhole shot out more water the trickled down solid side. It slowed as she spied it, but didn’t stop. Their gaze wandered from her to a clock in the business below it. Its hands were stuck. They snorted.

She smiled. The whale looked to her again and grinned. She smiled wider, caught between elation and fear as she looked down. The bullet casing was now longer metal, it was small, blue, and frozen in the state of dissolving in the puddles floating above the clogged tarmac and a solid pill.  
Then the gun shot came rushing upon her. The smile remained stagnant as she went to sleep.


	3. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 'Edge of Sleep' fan fiction. This one is 'Maniac and the Moobles Pt.1' induced, however there might be elements of insane doctors from horror films who do twisted medical experiments - I'm not naming any names. First draft, lots of mistakes, definitely septiplier. Enjoy?

“Why are you crying, love?”

Their voice was sweet – sickly so. It was giving him a headache, one that throbbed within his skull like a tumour, each pulse sending agony ricocheting throughout the compact space that was his skull. Each sound made his head pound and his heart stutter before sinking further in his chest, wrenching more salty tears to dribble pathetically down his cheeks.

The air was bitter, nipping at his nude form, drawing goose bumps to the surface of his skin. It was one of the minute things that forced him to accept that this situation wasn’t surreal, it wasn’t some twisted nightmare that his brain had concocted, oppressed by the inky darkness of the night sky. If it wasn’t for the frigidity within the room, he would have deliriously chanted and convinced himself that this wasn’t real, that he would be shaken awake by his boyfriend, and he would sob seeing those concerned, oh so warm brown eyes hovering blearily above him, concern shining through the deep chocolate that drew him in.

“Oh, honey, shh. It’s okay,” came that deep, buttery voice, calloused fingertips running over his sensitive cheeks, brushing away the fat droplets of disbelief from pale skin, streaking the salty wetness across that now flushed flesh. “It’ll be okay. I know it’s scary now, but it’ll be okay. I promise baby.”

He struggled against the leather restraints that dug into his wrists. It stank of antiseptic and sickness. Of death and near-death – the grim wish for death, wanting to just round the corner to end the endless suffering that they saw ahead of them. There was a metallic scent, faint and hazy, but it was there; blood, tools, gurneys.

They cracked a blinding smile, pure elation and love, “I know baby, I know. You hate hospitals so much, so I’ll make this as quick as I can, okay? You won’t even remember this when you wake up.”

More sobs were torn from his chest, more tears betraying his fear and shock. He choked around the gag, fabric rough and coarse against his teeth and tongue, a copper taste of blood and damp filling his mouth. Bile was steadily rising in his throat as he thrashed weakly, babbling and shaking. The metal was freezing, a blessing and a curse. His back and thighs were numb, a sense of emptiness creeping into his bones, into his stomach and heart, cooling his burning arse.

Oh. Last night. Mark was excited over something. He was bouncing and smiling and laughing, eyes sparkling. It had been so beautiful – his chest left his chest when he was crushed in a hug. Mark had spoken about one last time, like this. Like what? He had asked about what was changing, except Mark didn’t so; Mark simply said that they were going to be happier, more happy than they could have ever of being. Mark took him so gently that night. His kisses were soft and passionate, his thrusts were deep and dragging, he whispered praise and delectations of love into his ear, caressing and shielding his heart with false hope. Why hadn’t he seen it? The glint in Mark’s eyes. How Mark stroked his thighs like he was an angle, like he couldn’t imagine why such a being would want to be with him. Like he couldn’t ever let him go.

A clattering of metal brought him back to the present. His blood slowed further as the man he loved so dearly swam back in view, eyes dark and holding a scalpel in his right hand. Mark smiled further as Sean began to wail, pleas muffled by the gag. Still with a grin that didn’t meet his eyes, Mark laid down next to Sean, so their sides were touching. The metal instrument was lowered, sharp blade ghosting over his nude side. Sean jerked, restraints clattering against the operation table, as Mark pulled the blade back so it didn’t cut him. 

“Don’t move love or you’ll get hurt. Just relax. I’ll take good care of you. I promise, okay? Sh, calm down baby. I know that this is scary but it’s worth it.”

The blade came down against, scraping against the fine hairs on his skin, but Sean held stock still this time. It was rewarded by a dry kiss on his neck and a purr from the one beside him. Sean sniffled, shuddering.

The scalpel moved along his ribs to his stomach, and the lower. Cool metal left a trail of white marks and raised skin. “I’ll cut... here.” It rested against the small of his back. His entire back was arched, forced up by the thick forearm underneath him. “Just there. I’ll... fold your rectum. So that it’ll only fit my cock, and it won’t become dirty. So that I’ll be the only one able to fuck you, so that we’ll be together forever. You physically can’t leave me if you ever want to be sexually gratified. But that won’t be a problem, will it love?”

Air stilled around them. Sean was shaking, still, eyes clenched shut, hyperventilating. Tear tracks were now deep-set, and the tips of his fingers were starting to go numb.

“I’m going to remove the gag, okay? Don’t scream. I just want to hear what you think. It’s a mere courtesy towards you though, you must understand – I already know that you will approve.”

As soon as those skilled hands undid the gag, and it fell slack before drifting out of his mouth, Sean was sobbing loudly, “Please- that’s not how it works- no- please Mark- stop! P-p-stop-no-please-“

He was cut short by his short breath, and soon he was raising his head, trying to breath through the block in his chest, trying to see through the blurriness in his eyes. Sounds seemed to fade away, muffled and garbled. The pain in his head increased by tenfold and Sean began to pant, writhing. A ball rose in his throat, before dropping, splashing in the bile. Sean jerked up, vomit pouring from his mouth and ejecting all over his torso, dripping onto the table and the pooling on the floor. He choked, coughed, liquid caught in his throat.

When Mark hovered over him, his eyes were lighter, more concerned than they were moments previous, “Sean, love, are you sick? Hey, hey, look at me. You’re panicking – shh, look at me. Hey, hey, focus on me!”

There was a melodic thud as the scalpel and gag both fell to the floor, soaking in the vomit, as Mark clambered over Sean. He could see the American’s lips moving, but didn’t register any sound. Everything was so cold, it was numb and freezing, until there was scorching heat on his shoulders and black was dotting his vision. So he opened his mouth and screamed, bawling and screeching loud enough for Mark to reel back and clutch his ears. Mark’s body seemed to fade into four shapes, then three, then two as more black encroached on his vision.

The last thing he was the white block that he vaguely remembered as a door flying open, slamming into the wall behind it. New shapes rushed in and then the sound hit Sean all at once and his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell limp on the operating table.


	4. Cold and Hot and Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Death, graphic torture, implied mass death, burning alive, drowning, ships sinking, the ocean
> 
> Not edited, just vomited onto a page and posted

Clanging echoed throughout the chamber, sharp and booming. The metal bit into my skin, icy pain shooting through my entire arm as blood bubbled, smearing and staining purple porcelain. My entire body shivered and trembled from frigid metal against my wrist, back, arm, the icy water sloshing around my knees. Dull aches spread my throat as I screamed and wailed for attention, for salvation, for life, as the murky water gushed into the room, gushing from the top of the stairs like a waterfall. The thundering of the water drowned out any noise that my feeble broken voice produced. I felt frozen, terror and an unwillingness to die seeping into my mind like the sweetest of poisons.

There was only so much one could thrash and writhe and howl and shriek before the will ebbed out of you and slowly you fell silent. The frightened sobs from beyond the door were nearly indistinguishable from the deafening thunderclap of the dominating ocean. An unwitting stab of rage bolted through me, flash flooding my body in a single second with no buildup. I was shaking, with cold, anger, jealousy, hatred, bitter resentment. They had a chance to live and they were crying about it. It left as soon as it came, washed away by another wave that ate at my thighs. Stung so that all my thoughts centred around the cruel sadistic humour of mother nature as she laughed with blue fingers and lips. 

It was dark. Comforting. Shadows wrapping their arms around me and cradling me like a baby, cooing an inexorable lullabye in my ear. Numbness was taking my body but it was held up by the handcuffs securing my arms above my head. By now the water had risen to my waist, hugging it closely and stealing all feeling from my tender skin. Those unfeeling fingers snatched the warmth from the love bites. They stole the memory of those gorgeous blue eyes staring into mine as he sank his teeth into my thigh to hear me cry out. Tears in my eyes swelled as the water around me saturated my shirt and clawed at me, trying to pull me under the tempestuous surface. It heaved as it roared and battered against the creaking walls of the ship.

One of the pipes above me groaned before there was a rush of noise that left my ears ringing as the bolts burst off and the metal ruptured, steaming water surging from the hole and engulfing my being in a moment. I barely had a second to hold my breath before the bubbling water cascaded down my ladden body and it was all I could do not to pass out as it scalded and charred my skin. Agony exploded as the water ran red and my sight and hearing was stolen from me. My throat burned so I must have been screaming but all I could hear was the rushing of blood and piercing ringing.

It's not everyday you can feel yourself cooking alive. If I was in the right mind I would have appreciated the way I could feel the way my flesh loosened and sagged as it softened and fell heavily against my skin, or how the ligaments in my body shriveled and my bones were let loose to fall in the tender chunks of meat of my body. If I was in the right mindset then I might have also been able to hear my name being shrieked from the top of the stairs before being washed away with the flow of the water. Maybe I would have been able to feel the calloused hand scraping my wrist attempting to break the handcuffs but only succeeding in tearing the skin and allowing my blood to pool out along with small chunks of meat.

All I knew was that the water stopped pounding on top of my head but everything still hurt and in a sick twist of fate the icy pools of water strangling my shoulders and neck were soothing in the most agonising way. And then it all went dark and all of the pain and agony faded along with the hysterical shrieks of my name trying to call me back.


	5. Laughing and Crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laughing and crying, cackling and sobbing.

With how complex the human mind is, you would expect them to have a clear cut sense of contentment and melancholy. However when you truly think about it, crying and laughter, two perceived opposites of emotion, aren't that different. The fact is that they are probably instinctive of each other; crying conveyed deep set happiness and laughing displayed instability. Tears roll down your cheeks when you are laughing too hard, or when you are infinitely happy. You laugh in the face of fear and sadness, shock creating a numb nebula to wedge in your throat and all you can do is force out a chuckle into the dry air of disbelief as your mind caves in on itself in despair. It could be said that those who laugh the hardest, cry the hardest or smile the brightest are the most deeply depressed.

In extension to this idea, your sense of humour and the sensibility of sorrow are inexplicably linked.

Those whose occupation is within comedy, humour, consistently reveling their own sadness whilst unconsciously releasing it.

Despite how his brown eyes sparkle and twinkle with kindness and empathy, his smile stretches wide across his face and then opens in a deep chested guffaw, as his eyes scrunch up as he bends over, trying to hold back tears at that hilarious thing Tyler said, the deep pit within his was swelling, only to dissipate atom by atom as he crumbles to the ground with the weight of a small man weighing him down. So acclimatised to the ebb and the flow of depression he probably can't even feel it crushing down his heart.

So it isn't truly surprising to see him hysterically cackling to the high heavens, mud smearing his side and thigh and calf and face and coating his hair, memories of his father flashing through his mind like a camera flashes. They are manic howling calls for help, for a relief, to be numbed by the cold, cured of all emotions as his mind and heart run rampant and his throat catches and blocks with air and suddenly he can't breath through his laughing fits. Dirt flooded, wet with the natural tears of existence, it is within every being to be depressed.

Similarly, when he stared down at his beaming boyfriend, one knee to the ground, other supporting his body as he proffered a velvet box with an engraved key nestled on the red cushion inside, the hypothesis would be that he started to sob. Successful, as tears began to roll down his dark cheeks and cling to light beard. Hands covered his nose and mouth to muffle to voice of the water as he nodded, hair flopping before his eyes and absorbing the droplets like a lost lover.

But with how intertwined sadness and happiness are, they often come together, inseparable so they are forced to be experienced together. A bittersweet symphony of notes swirling and spiralling together in the air like smoke, being inhaled and drunk up.

Brown eyes watching from the window as his love beams down at his new girlfriend, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to her lips. Heart beating erratically within his chest as his eyes water but he can't help the dry, mirthless chuckle that rips itself from his throat as if the cruel parody of his life was funny. As if he wasn't still enraptured by how his love's hips sway when he walks, how when he stretches a sliver of porcelain skin is exposed when he stretches high to reach items from the top shelves. Agony became a writhing beast that spun and spun until its rough skin had stripped his insides of any protective lining and he was left aching, bleeding as he watched an angel potter around their shared house, lit by the fierce sun as it beat down on LA.

But it is not that simple, of course it isn't. Sadness and happiness are opposites, they are the same chemicals, and its lack of these chemicals that created sadness as we know it. So of course they're linked. It's embedded in the nature of happiness that without constant refreshing its a temporary emotion, a distraction or a mere blip due to some petty inconsequential action. And as these emotions are cut from the same cloth, it could be said that happiness ruins lives, relationships, entire countries, scrambling for the elusive happiness, to feel okay only to fall back and become addicted to the quick bite of serenity that the brain can provide. They think that if I can just do that, or hear this, or eat these, then everything will be okay, if okay is happy. It becomes a mystic figure in the distance as your brain struggles to keep up with the insatiable need created by depression and loss.

As fleeting and consuming that one would willingly wreck themselves. He holds on tight to the headboard, hands white with pressure to not topple off of the bed as it slams into the wall behind, with the sheer force that his love is putting into the thrusts. He can feel every scrape and drag of the cock inside of him and all he can think about is moving on and not loving the man who doesn't care for him anymore. Each gasp is verging on laughter as he is pounded into and dominated by the emptiness and regret that plague his every thought. His next breath is a chuckle.


End file.
